21Sextury
Alexis Crystal, Raul Costa Pic(s)
The first pale rays of dawn filter through the gauzy curta, casting a soft, golden haze across the tangled sheets where our bodies still lie intertwined. His scent, a musky blend of sleep and skin, clings to the pillow beneath my cheek, a familiar and intoxicating perfume from the night’s explorations. I shift slightly, feeling the warm, solid weight of his arm draped possessively over my hip, a heavy comfort that anchors me to this moment of perfect stillness. My gaze traces the languid curve of his spine, the landscape of his back rising and falling with each deep, even breath that whispers past his slightly parted lips. A faint memory of his mouth tracing a path of fire along my collarbone sends a shiver of recollection through me, a ghost of the passion that left us spent and silent. The quiet of the room is profound, broken only by the distant chirp of a waking bird and the sound of our shared existence in this hushed space. My fingertips, moving of their own volition, gently skim the faint scratches my nails left on his shoulder, a pale map of our earlier urgency now softened by the forgiving light. He stirs, not into wakefulness, but deeper into the pillow, a low, contented murmur escaping him as if in answer to my touch. In this suspended hour, the world outside feels impossibly distant, and all that is real is the heat of his skin agat mine and the promise of a new beginning written in the quiet language of our bodies.
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